


Sentiment

by Sabulana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gen, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabulana/pseuds/Sabulana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever Sherlock was expecting when he came back to London, it wasn't this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a short scene where John and Sherlock hugged. Then my brain demanded context.
> 
> And then the next time I looked at my word count, it was well past 5000.
> 
> This grew and evolved into something I didn’t originally plan on but (mostly) love anyway. Also, there are parts of this that I’m just not happy with no matter how many times I try to fix them but I’ve left them in, rather than deleting them. So.
> 
> I started this in May 2012, by the way. Thought I’d better finish this before it gets Jossed completely by the new series in a couple days. 
> 
> It might also be worth noting that Kingston Hospital is a real place. I’ve never been but I did the best research I could. It’s probably all wrong so I’ll claim creative license or something. Also, I realise that I have left Molly out. I feel terribly about this, because I love her so freaking much but I just couldn’t find a way to do it properly so, unfortunately, she was left out.
> 
> Also, I'm so goddamn sick of looking at this that I've gone ahead and posted without giving it a proper going-over. So if there's anything amiss, let me know. I'll fix it when I start caring about this story again.

When Sherlock traveled the world, he often dreamed of Baker Street and the flat he shared with John. It was warm and safe, with no threats from Moriarty’s organisation. It was just him and John. Sometimes John was angry with him for what he had done and sometimes he was not, just listening as Sherlock played his violin or explained his reasons for leaving, his progress on systematically taking down Moriarty’s web of criminals. His favourite dream was where he returned home to John and was welcomed with open arms and things went right back to how they were.

It would never happen like that, of course, but it was a dream and even Sherlock could not always control his dreams (he had learned lucid dreaming some time ago to try to rid himself of the more ridiculous dreams his subconscious provided during the few hours he did actually sleep).

He knew John would likely be very upset with him when he returned. There would be some anger and frustration but John would listen to him and then… and then, hopefully things could go back to the way they were after they get used to each other again. If John still wanted anything to do with him. Sherlock, in his more pessimistic moments, considered that possibility.

But in all of the scenarios Sherlock had pictured, he had not imagined that John would get married and move out of Baker Street. 

The flat had remained empty after John had left. Mrs Hudson wavered over letting the rooms, torn between wanting someone else in the building and wanting to preserve the rooms as ‘her boys’ had left them. Mycroft, for reasons he did not explain to her, slipped the rent money into her accounts without Sherlock ever asking him, damned interfering busybody that he was, though Sherlock was secretly grateful. 

She had cried when Sherlock appeared on the doorstep, half-screaming with shock before swatting him on the arm and pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ , where on _Earth_ have you been?!”

She all but dragged him across the threshold and pushed him down on to her sofa. Sherlock had lost quite a bit of weight and put up no resistance, letting her push him about with ease.

“Oh, it’s been so quiet since you left – quieter still since John moved out. It’s almost unbearable. I know I complained before but… I missed you playing the violin at all hours. And the dishes of mould you left everywhere. Silly, isn’t it? Though I have to say, I did not miss the gunshots, the fighting or the body parts in the fridge, young man.” She ended on a harsh note but she couldn’t stop smiling, despite the tears.

Sherlock accepted the tea cup she pushed into his hands without a complaint. “John… moved out?”

No. That was not how this was supposed to go. It wasn’t. John was supposed to be here, waiting for him. _Foolish, Sherlock. Did you really think he would wait around for three years for a man he believed was dead? Idiot!_

“Yes, he left… oh, must have been about a year and a half ago. No, nearly two years now. He’ll be coming up to his second anniversary soon,” Mrs Hudson said. “Didn’t you know? I thought you would have kept track of him if you were still alive.”

“No, I… I didn’t want to… to alert my enemies to him, in case they used him against me. I cut off all ties when I …left,” Sherlock explained. “Only Mycroft and one other knew I was still alive, though not where I was.”

“So poor John had no idea? Oh, _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock focused his gaze on his tea cup, unwilling to face Mrs Hudson in the face of her disappointment. “It was necessary, believe me. I would not have done it otherwise.” Quite involuntarily, his hands shook, just a little.

Mrs Hudson took the cup and set it on her coffee table, then grasped both of his hands in hers in a comforting gesture. 

“You should go and see him. He’s still in London but he’s married now, just to warn you, to a lovely young lady by the name of Mary. She’s done wonders for him while you’ve been… away.”

“Do you have his address?”

Fifteen minutes later, after promising repeatedly that he would come back and live upstairs, Sherlock left 221 Baker Street and caught a cab to John’s new home. As he got into the black cab, his mobile text alert went off.

_Welcome home – MH_

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw the device into traffic.

* * *

John’s home was… not Baker Street. That was all Sherlock could think as he stood outside, looking up at it. It was a small house, with geraniums in pots on the window sills. There was a small garden filled with flowers and a cracked pathway leading up to the front door. Tell-tale traces of soil around the cracks and gouges showed that it had been cleared of weeds recently.

He knew he should go up to the door and knock but something held him back at the gate. Should he disrupt John’s life like this? Perhaps he should have texted him first or done something earlier to let John know he was alive. John had a whole life separate from him now. Perhaps he wouldn’t want Sherlock back and it was better for him to keep believing he was dead.

Sherlock was so caught up in thinking that he missed the approaching footsteps.

There was no way he missed the voice though, so familiar, even after all this time, and so angry.

“You utter _bastard!_ ”

Sherlock turned just in time to be punched in the face. Caught entirely by surprise, he went down and wisely decided to stay there, at least until John had stopped glaring.

“John…”

“Is this seriously how you planned to let me know you were still alive? Just turning up on my doorstep out of the blue? A text message would have been nice, an email or – or _something_ you arrogant bastard.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t really planned this,” Sherlock admitted, looking up at John from the ground.

John snorted. “That much is obvious. Get up and come inside. I’ll… make tea or something.”

Sherlock allowed himself a brief smile at that – it was something so John. He all but jumped to his feet and followed John into the house.

It was bright and airy inside, with white painted walls and pictures on the walls. Some were of John and Mary, others of flowers and country landscapes. John led Sherlock into pastel yellow kitchen and sat him down at a wooden table.

“You got married,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“I did,” John replied, filling the kettle. “She’s at work at the moment, won’t be back for another hour.” He set the kettle down and flicked it on. “I don’t want you here when she comes home.”

“Oh?” Sherlock frowned at that. Why not? What had John told her about him?

“I don’t mean- I just don’t think she should meet you like this. Not when you’ve just come home and we haven’t had a chance to talk,” John explained hurriedly. “I do want her to meet you, just…”

“Just not yet,” Sherlock finished.

“Yeah,” John replied.

They lapsed into silence while the kettle finished boiling. John reached into a cupboard for mugs and teabags. The fridge, Sherlock noted when John opened it, was stocked with plenty of milk. While the tea was brewing, John fetched an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel. 

“For the swelling,” he said tersely. 

Sherlock took it silently, privately revelling in the little ways in which John proved he was not rejecting him. He could tell John was still angry, upset, but he was restraining himself. The ice pack soothed the angry throbbing of his cheek – no bones broken, he assessed, and John had avoided his nose and teeth. Deliberately or purely by chance, Sherlock wondered.

“Are you moving back to Baker Street?” John asked, setting a steaming cup of tea before Sherlock.

The dark haired man nodded. “Of course. Mrs Hudson made me promise.”

“Been to see her then? How did she take it?” asked John, sitting opposite.

“She screamed and hit me,” Sherlock replied. “And then dragged me inside for a cup of tea.”

He caught John’s eye. There was a moment of silence and then John looked away, huffing in amusement. Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea. John had made it just the way he liked it. Even after all this time, he still remembered how Sherlock liked his tea.

“Well, at least I’ll know where to find you,” John said after a moment. 

“Yes. I’m… not going anywhere for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock replied quietly. “I’ve missed… London.”

John shot him a look. “Really.”

“…John.”

“Sherlock.”

The detective put the ice pack down on the table. “…I missed you. Every day. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Is it true?” John’s gaze was unflinching and hard.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate in answering, “Yes.” He held John’s gaze until the doctor looked away with a muttered curse.

Sherlock drained his cup. “I should… go. You know where to find me if you-“

“When,” John interrupted. “I’ll come by tomorrow after work.” He stood up to show Sherlock to the door. 

“Good. That’s… good. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah. Now go home, get some rest and eat something. You look like a skeleton,” John said firmly. “I’ll come by about half five, earlier if I can manage it and you can tell me everything.”

Sherlock nodded, stepping outside. “John… if there had been any other way…”

“Tomorrow, Sherlock. Tell me tomorrow. I… I just need time to process this tonight,” John replied. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Sherlock still hesitated just a moment before finally turning away.

“I will come, Sherlock, even if I wake up tomorrow and think this is all a dream, I’ll come to Baker Street,” John promised. “Now go. Mary won’t be long in coming home now.”

Sherlock nodded and turned. He heard John shut the front door as he reached the garden gate. That had not gone as well as he had hoped, though it seemed that his friendship with John was not completely unsalvageable.

* * *

Though he was not really hungry, Sherlock acquiesced to John’s request that he eat something. John wasn’t there to make sure he ate but Sherlock inexplicably felt better for having done it, even if it was just a slice of toast from some of the provisions Mrs Hudson had put in the kitchen for him, rightly assuming that he would not have bought any groceries for himself. 

Many of his belongings were packed away in boxes in his bedroom so he spent much of the night unpacking them and scattering everything around the flat again. He found the skull, much to his surprise. He supposed John had packed it away to prevent Mrs Hudson from throwing it out. Sherlock put it back on the mantelpiece where it belonged. 

Unpacking quickly became boring and Sherlock flopped on the sofa. He was home. His mission to systematically put an end to Moriarty’s web was over. John was safe, as was Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. But he wasn’t happy. It felt like the flat was missing something – a particular jumper-clad something. 

Ridiculous. Sherlock tried to dismiss the feelings but he had about as much success with that as he had had over the past three years – that is to say, none at all. In moments like this, Sherlock considered John to be a weakness. Anyone could use John to get to him – Moriarty had, after all. But he was one weakness Sherlock would not give up easily. If John would not want to remain friends after Sherlock told him everything, then he would simply try harder. It was selfish, perhaps, but Sherlock had never claimed to be otherwise.

Sherlock ended up lounging on the sofa for the rest of the night and most of the day, not sleeping but lost in thought. It was not until nearly twenty past five that he stirred, realising with a start that John would be coming soon. He jumped up in a flurry of motion. Should he get changed? Tidy up? There was dust everywhere, despite some obvious efforts by Mrs Hudson when he was visiting John the day before. John wouldn’t be happy about that. And the flat still smelled a little stale – he should have opened the windows, let some air in. He was still in the clothes he had worn yesterday, though they were more crumpled from spending so long on the sofa. 

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Sherlock froze in the middle of throwing things into a corner. John, already? He was early.

Mrs Hudson answered the door. He could hear snippets of their conversation.

“It’s so lovely to see you again, John. It’s been a while since you last visited.”

“Sorry about that, Mrs Hudson. I had to pick up a few extra shifts at the surgery. Denise has gone on maternity leave now so I’ve taken over some of her patients.”

“Ah well, I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you now Sherlock’s back, hm?”

“Ah. Yes. I… suppose you will. Upstairs, is he?”

“Of course. Probably waiting anxiously and listening in. I think he was expecting you to still be here, waiting for him when he came by yesterday, you know.”

“He would. Arrogant git.”

“Well, you shouldn’t keep him waiting. Up you go, dear.”

“See you later, Mrs Hudson.”

Then there were footsteps on the stairs and Mrs Hudson’s door opening and closing. Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, not sure if he should be sitting or standing. He suddenly felt irritatingly anxious, which was ridiculous, because this was John and Sherlock was determined that their friendship would survive this. Somehow.

“I wasn’t listening in,” he said when John appeared in the doorway. “You two were just talking loudly,” he added defensively when John raised his eyebrows.

“Right. Well. I brought Chinese since I don’t suppose you ate anything yesterday when I told you to,” the doctor said, taking the carrier of takeaway into the kitchen. It was so familiar it felt for a brief moment as though nothing had changed.

“I did eat,” Sherlock protested. 

John turned to him, clear disbelief on his face.

“I had a slice of toast,” the detective said, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

John snorted. “Is that it? Good thing I thought to bring food then. I told Mary I wouldn’t be back until late as well so we’ve got all night to talk.” He didn’t have to add ‘unless I don’t like what I’m hearing’. Sherlock remembered all too well the times John had stormed out of the flat during an argument. The problem with that now was that John had somewhere else to go home to. He no longer lived at the flat. He wouldn’t have to come back unless he wanted to.

He watched as John found the trays easily. Things had barely changed since he had been away. John still knew his way around the kitchen better than Sherlock. Well. That wasn’t true, was it? Plenty of things had changed but the flat itself remained the same.

John divided the cartons up on the trays and set them on the coffee table. 

“Right. Sit, eat and talk,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Sherlock sat on the sofa obediently, picked up a carton and poked at the contents. “Where do you want me to begin?”

John sighed, sitting at the other end of the sofa. “How about you tell me why you faked your death?”

Sherlock nodded and launched into his story, pausing only for quick bites when John urged him to eat. He told him all about Moriarty’s plan, how the master criminal had shot himself so that Sherlock would have no other choice but to jump, about the assassins that were trained on John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and if he had not jumped, each of them would have been killed.

“Letting you be killed was utterly unacceptable, John, and I had two choices – either I could actually kill myself, which was equally unacceptable, or fake it and go underground to take out Moriarty’s organisation in secret. You see, John, I did it to protect you.”

“You could have come for me later, I could have helped you!” John protested. “I’m not some helpless damsel in distress, Sherlock. I was a soldier. I could have done something to help you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I couldn’t be sure Moriarty’s people weren’t monitoring you still. It would have looked suspicious if you had simply vanished. No, better that you think I was dead. It kept you from being a target.” He frowned at his chicken satay.

“I don’t care. I don’t care now and I wouldn’t have cared then. You could have come for me,” John protested.

“And what of your wife, Mary?” Sherlock asked. “What if I had come after you had met her? Or after you had married her? Would you have dropped everything then? What if I had come before you ever met her?”

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ ,” John snapped, slamming his carton down on the tray. “Don’t you dare bring Mary into this! You didn’t even know about her until yesterday!”

“John-“

“No! Sherlock, you don’t get to use her in your reasoning. Damn it, don’t you know how terrible it was for me after you – after you left? I thought you were _dead_. You were gone and I … it felt like I’d lost everything. I couldn’t stay here, not when everything reminded me of you. I kept turning around, expecting you to be there and you weren’t. I kept making two cups of tea instead of one. I just… I just… I missed you _so fucking much_ and now I find out that you _faked_ the whole thing!” John paused to take a long, shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders were shaking.

Crying, Sherlock realised. He had no idea what to do. If John was a witness, then Sherlock could fake something to get him to talk but John was not a witness and he wouldn’t appreciate that from Sherlock. 

“…For what it is worth, John, I am truly sorry but I would not change anything I have done. You are still alive and you are safe and that is what matters to me,” Sherlock said quietly. “You are my … my best friend. My blogger. Your safety was paramount.”

John shook harder. Sherlock edged closer, still unsure. 

“John? I… I knew you would be strong enough to deal with losing me. You would grieve but you would recover. If it had been the other way around… I cannot say I would have dealt with it quite so well,” he admitted in a small voice. “John, please…”

“…I should punch you again,” John muttered. “I should walk out and never look back after all you’ve put me through.”

“Are you going to do that?” asked Sherlock.

“No. Heaven help me but no, I’m not.” He wiped his eyes and looked up again at Sherlock. “Now, tell me what you’ve been up to these last three years.”

Sherlock smiled faintly, pleased that John wasn’t leaving, and resumed his story. John listened intently, picking up his carton again and eating. Gesturing with his fork, Sherlock began detailing his worldwide mission to track down and eradicate Moriarty’s web of criminals. John interrupted only occasionally with praise or comments on how much of an idiot he thought Sherlock was. It was almost like old times, but Sherlock was acutely aware that when he was finished and they were done talking for the night, John would not be going upstairs to his room but to another house where his wife was waiting for him.

It was late when John called a halt to their conversation.

“Sorry, but I should go. I told Mary not to wait up for me but she probably will anyway,” the doctor explained. 

Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. “…Ah. Right. Yes, it is …quite late, I suppose. Uh…”

“I might not be able to come back for a couple days,” John said, seeing Sherlock’s uncertainty. “…I’m still not happy with you, not by a long shot but… I’m still giving you a chance. I don’t know if I’ll regret it later but I am.”

“But you _will_ come back?” That was important to establish.

“Yes. I promise. I’ll … text or something,” John said, shrugging into his coat. “No, wait – you’ll have a new number, won’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, digging in his pockets for it. “Do you still have the same number?” he asked. He smirked faintly when John nodded – he’d thought that would be the case. John was still as practical as ever.

“Mary bugs me occasionally to get a new phone but it still works so I don’t see the point in changing it,” John said as he handed Sherlock his phone. Sherlock entered his new number quickly and passed it back. “Right. Well then, I’ll see you in a couple of days, probably.”

“Yes. Right. I’ll be here. No reason to go out, you know. No cases.” That would have to change. He would have to contact Lestrade and let him know he was still alive. Possibly by phone, this time to avoid being hit.

“You need to go shopping,” John said. “Don’t just get Mrs Hudson to do it for you all the time.”

“Dull,” Sherlock replied dismissively. 

“Sherlock…” John said warningly.

“John.”

They stared at each other a moment longer until John cracked a smile. It was small and still somewhat shaky, uncertain, but it was still a smile.

“I’m glad you’re back, Sherlock.”

“I’m glad to be back, John.”

“I’ll see you in a few days. Bye, Sherlock.”

“Bye.”

John made his way downstairs. Sherlock waited until he heard the door open and shut, then launched himself at the window to watch John walk away. He stayed at the window until John was out of sight and then began rummaging around for his violin.

True to his word, John texted the following Friday to tell Sherlock he had time to visit, if Sherlock had no other plans. Sherlock responded with the news that he was still irritatingly case-free, as Lestrade wouldn’t talk to him. He had Mycroft send a file proving his innocence that Lestrade could use to clear Sherlock’s name and then summoned the inspector to Baker Street. Upon seeing him, Lestrade had turned very pale and all but collapsed on the sofa. He hadn’t been able to carry on a conversation for a while but eventually Sherlock explained things to him in brief and gave him the file. Lestrade, though furious with Sherlock, took the file but wouldn’t talk to him.

“He might call me in to investigate some cases after the story has been released to the press,” Sherlock said. “Once it is common knowledge that I am a genius the police couldn’t do without, there should be no stigma attached when requesting my aid.”

John raised an eyebrow. “If you say so… When will it be in the papers?”

“Sometime next week, I imagine. I’ve already informed Mycroft multiple times that I wish to get back to my work but they’re both taking their time over it.” Sherlock sighed irritably.

“It’s going to take us a long time to forgive you for what you’ve done, even if you did it to protect us,” John replied. “I, for one, am still bloody furious with you.”

“Mycroft knew I wasn’t dead,” Sherlock reminded him.

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be upset with you,” John replied. 

Sherlock said nothing, focusing his attention on his violin. He didn't care that Mycroft was 'upset' with him. Mycroft was always displeased with him, always _concerned_. But he was a constant in Sherlock's life whether he liked it or not and things often went easier for him when Mycroft was less displeased.

It was another week after the story was released that Lestrade began giving Sherlock cases again. Sherlock had spent the time pacing the flat, playing angry notes on his violin at all hours until Mrs Hudson complained to John. John, already aware of Sherlock's behaviour, phoned Lestrade and all but begged him to find something for Sherlock to do.

“I know you're not happy with him. I'm not either but he's driving both me and Mrs Hudson insane – and I don’t even live with him anymore,” John told Lestrade over the phone. “Surely you’ve got something that can keep him occupied for an afternoon?”

Sherlock shot John a look that went ignored. He couldn’t hear Lestrade’s answer but it must have been positive, as John’s posture relaxed in relief and he smiled.

“Great, thanks, Greg. See you later.” John hung up and turned to Sherlock, like the detective had not already deduced Lestrade’s answer. “He’ll see what he can find but he says he doesn’t always need your help, believe it or not.”

Sherlock snorted, but he was already of the opinion that Lestrade was the best Scotland Yard had to offer. Not just because Lestrade was pretty much the only one who would work with him and offer him cases but because Lestrade was actually _good_ at his job. Not as good as Sherlock, obviously, but he was good else he would not have attained the position of Detective Inspector.

Lestrade came over the next day with a box of files.

"Cold cases from your time playing dead," the inspector said, dropping it on the table. "I haven't got anything else at the moment."

Sherlock flashed a brief guilty smile, too quick for Lestrade to tell if he was sincere. He reached for the box. 

"I'm sure this will keep me busy for a day or two," he said.

"And keep you out of John's hair," Lestrade responded shortly. "I still haven't forgiven you so don't think for one second this means you're off the hook."

For a brief moment, Sherlock felt a pang of regret for the current state of his friendship with Lestrade. This was another man he had stepped off the roof for, another man who had grieved for him and when he had wanted time and space to deal with Sherlock's return, he was denied because Sherlock was bored. 

"...I understand. Shall I call you when I solve each case for you or when I've solved them all?"

"Sherlock..." Lestrade gave him strange look.

No doubt Sherlock had done something wrong again. John would be able to tell him but he wasn't there. He had made it very clear that he was spending the day with his wife, regardless of Sherlock's interfering and Sherlock was not invited. With John's previous relationships, Sherlock would have invited himself along anyway. But that was Before. Before the fall and before John was married.

"I'll let you back on crime scenes when something comes up that I can't handle but until then you'll have to make do with these," Lestrade said, sitting in John's chair (and it would always be John's chair, even if he no longer lived there). 

"I know you will," replied Sherlock. "I can only imagine how much your success rate has suffered in my absence."

"Damn it, Sherlock!" Lestrade swept the box off the table. "You don't get to say things like that! You were _dead_! We went to your funeral! We mourned you! I suffered through a massive investigation, nearly lost my job. Every case you ever helped us on had to be examined. My wife finally left me for good. Turns out she was willing to give our marriage a chance while I was still a respectable police officer but as soon as things turned bad, she couldn't stand me any more." Lestrade paused for breath, suddenly looking drained. 

An uncomfortable silence descended on the pair. Abruptly, the detective inspector stood up.

"I should go."

"Lestrade-"

"No, don't say anything, Sherlock." Lestrade turned, striding purposefully towards the door.

Sherlock persisted. "Lestrade!"

The older man ignored him, heading down the stairs. Sherlock leaped up after him.

"Lestrade!" he called once more, searching desperately in his head for a name he had heard John use. "Greg, wait!"

At the sound of his given name, shouted so desperately in Sherlock's voice, Lestrade finally stopped. He turned slowly on the stairs.

"I'm sorry. Really. If there had been any other way, I-"

"You'd have found it. I know. You're a genius. I remember." Lestrade sighed, looking guilty though he had every right to be angry. "Text me when you crack each case, alright? I can be arresting one culprit while you track the next or something." 

Sherlock nodded and Lestrade turned once more to leave.

"John was not the only one I saved when I jumped, Lestrade," Sherlock said, just loud enough to be heard at the bottom of the stairs. Then he shut the door and got to work at last.

* * *

It didn't take long for Sherlock to work through the box of cold cases, or the cases Lestrade brought him after that. John, in his own more simplistic way, did his part to help too. He had picked up a few of Sherlock's methods and complained once that he found it difficult not to try to work out details of other people's lives now. Sherlock only smirked in response

After a few weeks, a case cropped up that baffled Lestrade and the other officers. Sherlock immediately texted John with the case and the address as he hailed a cab outside the flat. After a moment, he realised just what he had done. Was it too soon, he wondered. Taking out his phone, he fired off another text.

_Come at once, if convenient. - SH_

He waited another moment and then sent another.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

Then he put his phone in his pocket and refused to think about the possibility that John might not come. There was no sign of the doctor when Sherlock arrived at the crime scene but Lestrade appeared in front of him almost immediately.

"No John?" the inspector asked.

"Not yet," Sherlock replied shortly.

"He's still angry then?"

"We're working on it."

"Can't say I blame him. He was a wreck after you left," Lestrade said. "If not for Mary, well - oh, here he is." The Detective Inspector nodded in the direction of a cab that had just pulled up. John climbed out a moment later, hurrying over to them.

“You’ve got some bloody nerve,” John said to Sherlock. “Texting me like that. I was at work.”

“And yet you came anyway,” Sherlock replied. “And it didn’t take you long to get away either.”

“…I told my boss I thought I was coming down with something and got the rest of the day off,” John replied. “Hi, Greg.”

“John, good to see you again. This is almost like old times, isn’t it?” Lestrade said, grinning.

“Indeed. Lead on, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

And just like that, it was almost like the last three years had never happened. _Almost_. There was some remaining tension between Sherlock and John, which escalated when John insisted on phoning or texting Mary but John would not be deterred. He only left Sherlock’s side once during the case, in order to go home and get a change of clothes. When it was all over and the murderer was jailed, they went for their usual Chinese takeaway and sat in the living room of 221b, eating and talking. John sent one final text to Mary, letting her know that the case was solved and both he and Sherlock were unharmed and he would be home in a couple of hours. 

He caught Sherlock eyeing his phone with distaste as he put it down. “She’s my wife, Sherlock. I can’t just ignore her when she’s at home, worrying about me.”

“Plenty of husbands ignore their wives,” Sherlock pointed out. He had seen enough evidence of that in his life. “And plenty of wives ignore their husbands too.”

John let out an aggravated sigh. “Well, I’m not like them, all right? I’m not going to abandon my wife just because my insane best friend returned from the dead and started dragging me around London after dangerous criminals again.”

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke again. “I suppose next time, I should forgo inviting-“

“Don’t you dare!” John snapped. “You’ll just get yourself killed for real without me around.” He dropped his fork into his carton and set it on the coffee table. “Besides, you know damn well I’m not actually complaining about that.”

“No, you’re really not,” replied Sherlock softly. He could tell. John may have found a wife and managed to keep a fairly steady job at a local doctor’s surgery and kept up a boring, normal life after Sherlock had left but he still craved the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the joy of successful catching another criminal. Even after all this time as a civilian, he still missed the battlefield.

There was a moment of silence. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared into his Chinese food and resisted the urge to look over at John for as long as possible. He gave in only when John looked away.

“Good. Well. I’m glad that’s settled.” John began eating again. “Now eat something, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock grinned, the same kind of smile that he always had whenever John did something remarkable and utterly _John_. It felt… odd, somehow, after three years but still just as natural as it had from the day they met. 

After they had managed to devour most of their takeaway and cleaned up, John left with promises to come back soon. Sherlock watched him stride off down the street, as had become his custom lately. It still did not feel right to him that John should live somewhere else but after so many conversations with John and Mrs Hudson, he had had no choice but to accept that this time, he could not convince John or otherwise force him into living together again. 

* * *

The very next day, John returned, looking uncertain. Sherlock watched him carefully as he hesitated in the doorway of the flat and then purposefully sat down in his chair. The detective, sprawled on the sofa, still did not say anything.

John was… nervous about something. He had something to say and was not sure how it would be taken. Judging from his behaviour, it was something he had to say to Sherlock. Probably about Mary, given that she had become a source of tenseness between them.

“Out with it then,” Sherlock barked. “What did she say to you?”

John frowned momentarily. “What-? Sherlock, stop deducing me.”

“I’ll stop deducing you when you tell me what Mary has told you to tell me,” Sherlock said. “I suppose she would prefer you to refuse to take any more cases with me or-”

“She wants you to come to dinner,” John interrupted. “Though she isn’t too impressed with the way I left work and went chasing after a murderer with you.”

“No.” Sherlock lay back on the sofa, tapping his fingertips together below his chin.

“No?”

“I have no desire to sit at a table, making awkward small talk with your wife,” Sherlock replied, still not looking at him. He didn’t need to look at him to perfectly imagine the annoyed expression on his face.

“Well, tough. I want you to meet her and she wants to meet you. You’re outnumbered on this one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced over with an incredulous expression. “And how exactly do you plan to convince me to go?”

“Sherlock…” There was no annoyance in John’s tone this time, only disappointment.

Irritably, Sherlock sat up, swinging his legs around to the floor. “No, John. Just how well do you think this dinner will go? We’ll sit around a table, making awkward small talk while I try not to insult her, inevitably manage it while deducing something about her and then get thrown out when she gets upset and you comfort her and then avoid me for a while until you get a good rant built up and then you come and shout at me. No, thank you. I do not see that working.” He ended his argument, pacing about the room, ignoring the mess that had built up and the furniture. His violin was by the bookshelf and he stepped on the coffee table on his way to get it. If John insisted on him attending dinner, then the consulting detective was simply not going to listen.

“I do,” John replied stubbornly. He eased into a more relaxed position. “And I know it won’t go as badly as you seem to think it will.”

Sherlock spun around, hearing the satisfied tone in John’s voice. His dressing gown flared out around him. “And why is that?”

“Because you just said you would _try_ not to insult her. You didn’t do that with any of my girlfriends before,” the doctor said, just a little smugly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. After another aborted attempt at speech, he turned away.

“I don’t want to go,” he muttered.

“Sherlock, _please_. I just want two of the most important people in my life to meet each other,” John pleaded. 

Sherlock refused to turn around, fiddling with his violin and bow. Behind him, John stood up.

“Just…. Think about it, okay? Six o’clock, Saturday.” There were footsteps as John headed for the door. “Let me know, all right?”

Sherlock’s response was a discordant screech of the violin. John hesitated just a moment longer, irritated and disappointed and yet still hopeful. The detective did not have to turn around to tell that much. But before he could say anything more, John turned and left.

_Damn it._

* * *

Saturday was two days away. Sherlock knew he could come up with a way of getting out of dinner at the Watson’s. A legitimate excuse that John would have to accept. He doubted that starting a new experiment would work. John would drag him away, seeing the ruse for what it was. Perhaps a case, then? He texted Lestrade quickly.

The reply came almost immediately.

_No. Even if something does come up, you’re not getting anything until Sunday. I promised. You’re not getting out of it. - GL_

Sherlock’s reply was less polite. _Bored. I need a case NOW - SH_

_Still no. Look, after all you made John suffer, the least you can do is have dinner with him and his missus._

Sherlock huffed and tossed his phone on to the table. Damn Lestrade, and damn John too. 

Saturday came and as time wore on, Sherlock realised there was no way out. He fired off a quick text to John, confirming his presence that evening and ignored the phone when it chimed, already guessing John’s response. 

He turned up on the doorstep at six o’clock promptly. Mrs Hudson had pressed a bottle of wine into his hand as he tried to leave, insisting that it was the kind of thing people did and she knew Mary liked that kind. It would help him make a favourable first impression, the woman had insisted. Sherlock had tried to explain that he did not particularly care what kind of first impression he gave anyone but Mrs Hudson had given him a fondly exasperated look that conveyed how much she did not believe him and let him go to catch a cab.

Now he was here and there was absolutely no possibility of cancelling or post-phoning the dinner. There was no real reason why he should even want to, except for the fact that this was obviously important to John and he was likely going to mess it up. He pressed the doorbell - single ring, maximum pressure, half a second.

“Sherlock!” John greeted cheerfully. “Come in, come in. Mary, Sherlock’s here.”

There was a flustered cry from the kitchen and a thump. “Oh dear, I don’t even feel nearly ready yet…” But despite that, Mary still emerged from the kitchen, smiling cheerfully with just a hint of nervousness.

She was a little shorter than John, with blond hair hanging in loose strands around her face. There were faint, floury hand prints on her dark skirt - she’d wiped them absentmindedly, used to doing the same in her normal clothes before remembering and struggling to remove it quickly without having to go and get changed. 

“Sherlock, this is Mary. Mary, this is Sherlock,” John said, his happiness at their meeting obvious.

She smiled at him cheerfully, with just a hint of nervousness. “So, the infamous Sherlock Holmes. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. John’s told me so much about you.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock replied, with a smile that was not completely fake. He handed her the bottle of wine. “I brought wine.”

“I see Mrs Hudson remembered my favourite,” Mary replied, reading the label with a little smile. “John, take Sherlock through to the dining room. Dinner won’t be long.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dinner was a simple but tasty chicken dish, with steamed vegetables and gravy. The three of them sat around the table in a somewhat awkward silence until Mary took it upon herself to speak up.

“So, Sherlock… No cases this week?” she ventured cautiously.

“No. Not this week,” Sherlock replied, shooting John a look. The doctor gave him a wide-eyed innocent look.

“How fortunate for us,” replied Mary. 

Sherlock frowned, momentarily unsure of her sincerity but when he looked at her, there was no trace of sarcasm or mockery. She really had wanted to meet him then, and so far showed no signs of disliking him.

When dinner was over, John cleared the plates away and offered to make tea and coffee. This left Sherlock and Mary alone for the first time that night. She seemed anxious, fidgeting and glancing towards the kitchen. Making sure John is busy, Sherlock realised. She wasn’t waiting for him to come back, she was hoping he would stay away for a little while. When the sound of the kettle boiling filtered down the hallway, she turned to him purposefully.

“Don’t you dare get him killed.” Mary glared at him fiercely. “I’ll never forgive you.” She faltered slightly under his gaze. “Which… okay, it probably doesn’t mean much to you but.. I just… I love him so much and I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Then why not forbid him to join me on my cases?” asked Sherlock.

Mary snorted, displaying just how ridiculous she thought that idea was. “You know why not. Why would you even ask that?”

“To see what you would say,” responded Sherlock honestly. 

Mary smiled, a hint of sadness behind her expression. “There was always something missing. Some part of him I couldn’t fill up or fix. I knew when he told me about you, I knew what he needed but it wasn’t something I could provide.Now you’re back and he’s…. Whole again, I suppose is the best way of putting it. I won’t take that away from him. Just… try to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

In that moment, Sherlock could see why this one, out of all the women John had displayed an interest in, had managed to secure John’s affections so completely. She accepted all parts of him and didn’t try to change or fix the parts of him that others had found undesirable - namely, his need of danger, for the spike of adrenaline that let him feel alive. She loved John, quietly and fiercely, but didn’t smother him. She knew she could not be everything that John needed and didn’t try. Instead, she would allow him to get involved in cases without complaint. It was somewhat unexpected, given the previous girlfriends Sherlock had known. He had expected her to demand he stop getting her husband into dangerous situations but instead had been met with a plea to keep him safe.

“It is often dangerous work. I cannot guarantee his safety or his survival,” Sherlock began. “But I can swear that I will do my best to make sure he never comes to harm. That is the last thing I want.”

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear but Mary smiled brightly all the same. John brought in a tray of tea and coffee, putting a stop to any further conversation they might have had. The atmosphere for the rest of the night was considerably more relaxed. 

“You’ll have to come again soon,” Mary said as she and John showed Sherlock to the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It was good to meet you too,” replied Sherlock, and was surprised to find he meant it. 

John watched their exchange, practically buzzing with happiness over the fact that they were getting along. Sherlock smirked at the sight. 

“That wasn’t so bad after all now, was it?” John said, radiating smugness. 

Sherlock’s only response was to smile and walk away.

“It wouldn’t kill you to admit you were wrong!” John called after him. Behind him, Mary giggled.

“I’ll see you soon, John,” Sherlock called back. He caught a taxi from the main road back to Baker Street, surprised to be leaving John’s home in high spirits.

* * *

Somehow, dinner with John and Mary became a fairly regular thing. Once a month, he was invited to dinner and neither would take no for an answer. After a particularly dangerous case involving a serial killer who came startlingly close to taking John’s life, the post-case takeaway began happening at their house too, rather than the Baker Street flat. All seemed to be going well. Sherlock found himself slipping into a state of contentment. Despite living alone, he no longer felt alone. Mrs Hudson still resided downstairs, Lestrade still called him to crime scenes, and John still joined him on cases.

Until one day, he didn’t.

A case had come up that had Scotland Yard flummoxed, a locked door mystery that seemed like something out of an Agatha Christie novel and all the evidence pointed to one suspect who had been in an unplanned emergency meeting that afternoon with several business colleagues. Clearly he was being framed, but by who? Sherlock texted John on his way to meet Lestrade, confident that John would meet him there.

It wasn’t until he was leaving the crime scene that he realised John had not shown up.

“Maybe he’s finally sick of you,” Donovan sneered. Her attitude toward him hadn’t improved much since his return, but he hadn’t really expected it to. 

Sherlock ignored her. He pulled out his phone and sent another text to John while Lestrade sent Donovan off on some mundane task.

_Where are you? - SH_

“Is everything alright?” Lestrade asked. 

“…Probably. Perhaps he simply forgot to charge his phone,” Sherlock replied, hesitating. But in his mind, he was going over his past meetings with John and Mary, trying to determine if there was anything he had missed, anything that might provide clues as to why John had not shown up.

“So what now?”

“There is still a murderer on the loose,” Sherlock replied. 

Lestrade still eyed him with concern. Sherlock turned away, simultaneously turning his mind back to the case. John would contact him soon, he was sure.

Except that he didn’t. It was after ten when Sherlock stumbled back into Baker Street, only a little closer to solving the case, and he still had not heard from John. This was new. This was unexpected and unwanted. After pacing for several minutes, Sherlock gave in and called John.

He listened to the phone ring and ring until he was sure he would get John’s voice mail but at the last second, the doctor answered.

“Sherlock… oh God, I meant to call you, I did - I just. Oh God, Sherlock…” 

The distraught tone caught Sherlock entirely by surprise. “Where are you?” he asked, forgoing all his other questions.

“Kingston Hospital,” John replied. “It- It’s Mary. She was - She’s - there was an accident.”

“I’m on my way.” Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs, his coat draped over his arm. He hurried out of the door and hailed the first taxi he saw. In a little under an hour, he was walking into the hospital and looking for John. 

The doctor was pale, hunched over in an uncomfortable plastic chair. He didn’t look up as Sherlock sat next to him. 

Silence reigned.

After a while, John bowed his head even further. “They said… they said she might not make it.”

Sherlock said nothing. There was nothing he could say. There was no way that he could make this better. 

“They haven’t come back with any more news in a while. I don’t know if that’s good or bad or-” John broke off, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“It means they’re still trying to help her. That there’s still something they can do for her,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“What will I do if I lose her, Sherlock? I don’t- I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Sherlock bowed his head. John had not ever truly lost him, but it had not felt that way to him. Sherlock knew better than to say as much at the moment though. The last thing John needed was to be reminded of the pain and loss he had felt when Sherlock had faked his death. “You won’t go through it alone,” he promised.

John said nothing, only seeming to shrink into himself. Sherlock slouched lower in his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him. After some indeterminable amount of time, a doctor appeared, looking for all the world like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than in that corridor. Not good news then, though Sherlock did not say as much John was no fool. He would see for himself as soon as he looked up.

“Mr Watson?” the doctor began hesitantly.

John glanced up at him. “Doctor. It’s Doctor Watson,” he replied numbly. 

“Doctor Watson. I’m afraid we’ve done all we can for your wife right now. She’s still in critical condition but she is as stable as we can get her right now,” the doctor replied.

“Can I see her?” asked John.

The doctor hesitated. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend it but… well, maybe for a few minutes, if you really want to.”

John stood up, nodding firmly. “Yes. I want to see her.”

Sherlock stood too, silently daring the doctor to say something. He was going to go wherever John went right now. But the doctor didn’t say anything about Sherlock coming along, instead leading them both to the room where Mary lay. 

She looked so much smaller in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping and whirring machines monitoring her and keeping her alive. She was pale and bruised, with bandages wrapped around almost every visible part of her and no doubt a great deal of her that was hidden beneath the bedsheets. John made a choking noise and moved to her bedside. Sherlock remained in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on John’s moment with his wife but also not wanting to leave. He kept his eyes averted, aware of John murmuring quietly to Mary but not trying to listen. To distract himself, he tried to turn his mind back to the case but found his ability to focus was impaired. 

“Sherlock?” John’s quiet voice brought him instantly out of his thoughts. He turned his head to see John beckon him closer. “You don’t have to stand all the way over there. She would be glad to know you’re here. She cares for you too.”

Sherlock hesitated only a moment longer before coming to stand by Mary’s bed. 

“It was a car, just outside the school grounds,” John said quietly. “One of the kids wasn’t looking - nearly got hit but Mary-” He broke off, dropping his head again. Sherlock waited patiently. “The driver was going too fast, didn’t even slow down until after - he’s in custody now, the police found him. The boy’s fine, the one in the road. But Mary…” He put his elbows on the bed, his face in his hands. 

Sherlock stared down at the figure in the bed. It wasn’t Mary, not really. The body lying there lacked all of her vitality. His mind whirled with survival statistics. Even if he persuaded Mycroft to ensure she got the best care, she might not recover. Silently, he put his hand on John’s shoulder. It seemed the appropriate gesture and served to comfort both John and himself. 

They remained like that until a nurse came and insisted they leave. John didn’t want to go. Sherlock pushed him out of the door regardless, making a silent promise to Mary.

‘ _I’ll take care of him, just until you come back to do it yourself. Because you took care of him for me when I could not._ ’

They shared a cab back to John’s house in the early hours of the morning. The sky was not yet beginning to lighten but it would soon. 

“Sherlock? Thanks,” John muttered, just before getting out of the car. 

“If there’s anything you need - anything at all, at any time, - call me,” Sherlock said. “Promise me you’ll call me, John.”

John turned back, exhaustion and grief written into every line on his face. “I promise, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waited until John had unlocked the front door and gone inside before urging the cab to move on. He watched the lights come on in the house as it shrank away behind him, only turning away once they were out of sight.

Baker Street was silent and deserted when he let himself into the flat. There was no way he would be able to sleep, not when Mary was in hospital and there was a case on. He paced the length of the living room once, twice, three times and then threw himself down on the sofa, silently fuming. He wasn’t even sure what made him more angry - the driver for being so reckless, Mary for jumping out to save some brainless little brat who should have paid more attention to road safety, or simply the entire world for being a place where something like this could happen. 

Stupid, useless sentiment. He had a case to work on, a murderer to catch. Yet how could he concentrate? And wasn’t it strange, to realise just how important Mary had become? It wasn’t even just because she was important to John. Somehow, quite without him ever truly meaning it, he had expanded his little circle of friends to include her too. 

After wasting too much time chasing useless thoughts in circles around his mind, Sherlock pushed it all aside and threw himself into solving his latest case. He had evidence to study and a list of potential poisons to rule out. 

At some point, Mrs Hudson came upstairs with a bag of shopping. She had barely managed to put it down on the kitchen table when Sherlock informed her in a detached tone of voice that Mary was in hospital. 

“Oh, oh no, Sherlock…” She pulled the chair out from the kitchen table and sat down, shocked. “Is she-?” But she didn’t finish. Sherlock could guess how she intended to continue anyway. Is she alright? The answer was obviously no. 

After a moment, Sherlock made tea. It was what John would have done, though perhaps he would have done it before springing bad news on someone. He slid the cup on to the table beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder. It was a gesture meant to anchor him, as though he could give her all the unwanted feelings inside him into her but as she slid a hand over his and held it there, he realised it was about comfort too.

* * *

All of Sherlock’s focus went into solving the case quickly after Mrs Hudson left. He no longer wanted to do it, not this case, but couldn’t bring himself to quit in the middle. He talked to the skull on the mantelpiece, as John wasn’t there. He expected that he had gone back to the hospital as soon as he could be sure that they would let him in again. 

As soon as the case was wrapped up later that afternoon, Sherlock headed directly to the hospital. It had been incredibly easy, at least for him, and he was surprised that he hadn’t solved it earlier but put it down to being distracted when John had not answered his texts. Lestrade let him go as soon as they had their murderer, a remarkably resourceful young lady, in custody.

It was then that Sherlock told him the reason for John absence. Lestrade deserved to know, but Sherlock hadn’t wanted him distracted as he was. 

“Bloody hell! Look, I’ve got to deal with this first,” he said, indicating the woman in the back of the police care. “But I’ll pop by and visit once we’ve got the paperwork sorted, alright? Might check up on the driver, see how they’re dealing with him if I have time. Are you going over there now?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I expect I should,” he replied. He turned to walk away, only to be called back by Lestrade. “What?”

“Sherlock, are _you_ alright?” asked the detective.

Sherlock frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied. After all, he wasn’t the one in hospital. Yet, even as he spoke, he was no longer sure of his answer.

“Of course,” Lestrade muttered, though he didn’t lose his concerned expression.

Sherlock turned away. There was no time to be analysing his own reactions. He reached the nearest main street, hailed a cab and headed over to the hospital. 

As he predicted, John was there. He sat slumped over in the chair by Mary’s bed, pale skin making the deep shadows under his eyes stand out even more. He hadn’t slept much since Sherlock had seen him last, perhaps not at all. 

“John,” he greeted quietly.

John started, jerking upright. “Sherlock? God, what time is it..?” he asked, looking at his watch. 

“No change?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John shook his head. “No. There’s… there’s nothing. She’s stable but she’s in a coma.”

“Come on.” Sherlock tilted his head towards the door. 

“What? No, I can’t-” John began.

“You haven’t slept, despite my instruction to do so. You haven’t changed your clothes or shaved as you would normally. I would even go so far as to say you haven’t eaten or drunk anything since last night. So now we are going to get something to eat, and if you don’t come willingly then I will have to resort to desperate measures,” Sherlock said. “Now, come on.”

John cast one final glance back at Mary. “Okay, fine. But I’m coming back as soon as we’re done.”

Sherlock didn’t expect anything less. He took John along to the hospital restaurant and paid for tea and sandwiches. As it was a couple of hours after lunchtime, it wasn't busy. There were a few others, leaning on tabletops and sipping coffee and idly pushing food around their plates. Sherlock directed John to a table and got them both a pot of tea and a sandwich each. Both of them needed to eat and it wasn't the right time for the usual post-case Chinese. 

They ate in silence until John had finished his tea. 

"I couldn't sleep. I tried but... how can I sleep when she's supposed to be in bed next to me?" 

Sherlock didn't have an answer. He wasn't in the habit of sleeping beside anyone. It seemed he wasn't supposed to answer anyway, as John kept talking. 

"It just doesn't feel right there without her. I keep expected her to appear and begin talking about her classes or lesson plans or asking how my day has been or, or something. And I can’t do anything to help her. I can’t make her wake up. I can’t - I don’t know if she can hear me or not. So I just keep talking, even when I have nothing to say, even though she doesn’t respond.”

“It’s not like that stopped you before,” Sherlock said before he could quite stop himself.

“Bastard.” There wasn’t any real heat behind it. John was too tired for that. “I’m going back.” He drained his tea cup and pushed his chair back, striding from the restaurant without looking back. Sherlock finished his sandwich and followed

John was back at Mary’s bedside when Sherlock caught up. He held her hand, stroking her wrist with his thumb. It felt like a private moment. Sherlock watched in silence from the doorway, then turned and left. He asked a nurse when visiting hours ended, with the intention of taking John home to rest properly when the nurses tried to make him leave.

* * *

Sherlock spent much of the next few hours with his violin, composing and venting his frustrations through torturing the strings. He heard Mrs Hudson moving around downstairs but she didn't come up. 

He only stopped when his phone rang, a little more than an hour before he planned to return to the hospital. A split second glance at the name on display filled him with a curious mix of dread and hope. There were only two reasons why John would call him. Either Mary had awoken or...

"John?" Sherlock answered

"Sherlock..." John didn't have to say any more than that. His voice said it all. Mary hadn't woken up. 

"I'm on my way," Sherlock said dropping his violin onto his chair. He was downstairs in a flash, donning his coat. He hung up the phone and called to Mrs Hudson. She was much better at giving comfort that he was. 

"Sherlock, what is it?" Mrs Hudson asked, coming out of her flat.

"Put your coat on," Sherlock said, taking it from the rack by the door. He held it up for her to slide her arms in. "John needs us."

Mrs Hudson's eyes widened. "Oh, Sherlock, is Mary..?"

"I'm afraid so, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied sombrely. 

Mrs Hudson put her coat on, fastening it up while Sherlock went out to hail a taxi. If John was surprised to see both of them when they arrived at the hospital, he made no mention of it. He accepted Mrs Hudson's tearful embrace, unashamedly shedding his own tears. 

Sherlock hung back, watching them with a sort of detachment. Mary was gone. There would be no more regaling her with tales of their cases. She wouldn't make slight digs at him anymore while John smirked in the background. No more dinners. No more strange, fond smiles that he didn't fully understand. There was a Mary-shaped hole in the world and he didn't even know there had been a space for her to fill in the first place. 

“John? Sherlock?” There were hurried footsteps and then Lestrade was there. Sherlock had almost forgotten that he had said he would come. “Is Mary-?”

“Gone,” John choked out. “The stress on her body- she just- one moment, she was… almost sleeping and then… I couldn’t help her.”

“Oh God… I’m so sorry, mate,” Lestrade muttered, stunned.

The rest of the day passed in something of a blur. There was crying and comfort and eventually they returned to Baker Street together. There wasn't even the thought of taking John back to the house he had shared to Mary. He would have to return there eventually but for now, he would take the upstairs bedroom at Baker Street. 

They gathered in the living room of 221b, John and Lestrade sitting on the sofa while Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen making tea.

There was a numb sensation in Sherlock's chest, an absence of emotion. He should feel more, he thought. There should be something, anything at all apart from this terrible feeling of 'I saw this coming.'. The moment he had learned all that had happened to Mary, he had calculated the probability of her death and it hadn't been good. So he had known, had expected it and yet still felt shocked when it happened. 

At some point, the sun went down. Mrs Hudson made sandwiches, as no one felt like cooking or eating. More tea was made, the familiar ritual obviously grounding Mrs Hudson. They spoke quietly about Mary, sharing good memories. Sherlock heard many stories he hadn't heard before, things that had happened before his return. 

Eventually Lestrade made his excuses and left. Mrs Hudson saw him out the front door and didn't come back up. John looked dead on his feet but stubbornly stayed on the sofa until Sherlock gave in and manhandled him up the stairs. Only then did Sherlock go to bed. 

He was the first up the next morning. The events of the day before no longer felt real. It was like a bad dream, except Sherlock knew it wasn't. 

John came down late in the morning after sleeping badly. He say on the sofa, staring blankly at the coffee table. Sherlock put the kettle on, carefully selecting cups that hadn’t been used in experiments. John didn’t look up until Sherlock slid the cup and saucer on to the coffee table into his field of vision. A plate of toast followed.

“I’m not hungry,” muttered John.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied. “Eat it.”

“Sherlock, I’m not in the mood, alright?” John huffed, turning away. He made to stand up but was prevented from doing so by Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders.

“I made you toast, John. Eat it,” he urged. 

John glared a moment longer, then settled back and ate sullenly. Sherlock watched him from his armchair until he was finished.

“…I need some fresh clothes,” John said after a lengthy silence.

Sherlock nodded. “Do you wish to go yourself or should I send Mrs Hudson?” he asked. 

John hesitated. Sherlock could see him weighing the options. One one hand, he could avoid going home to where Mary should be for one more day or he could simply accept that he would have to return there eventually and get it over with. 

“I’ll go. Best to just… get it over with,” John said, standing up.

By unspoken agreement, Sherlock went with him. While John pulled clothes out of the wardrobe and drawers, Sherlock stayed downstairs. He paced around the living room, by now familiar with all the books and ornaments there. There was a TV guide open on the coffee table, a novel on the arm of the chair that Mary had been reading. She wouldn’t know how it ended now. Sherlock picked it up, flicking to the last few pages. Some kind of tearful reunion and a happy ending. She would have enjoyed it. 

Sherlock sank down on the sofa, his head in his hands. He lost track of time, consumed by his own thoughts until John came downstairs.

"Sherlock?" John appeared in his field of vision, looking concerned but that was ridiculous because John was supposed to be distraught over losing his wife, not worrying about Sherlock. His eyes were rimmed with red, betraying the fact that he had been crying. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I jumped off a building so I wouldn't have to feel like this," he said. "I mean... I didn't want to lose anyone I cared about. I didn't even want to care about her."

"I know, Sherlock. I know." John regarded him with a lot more patience that Sherlock felt he deserved. “Come on,” he said, nudging Sherlock up. “Let’s go home, eh?”

* * *

The funeral took place a week later. The sun shone brightly, yet it didn’t feel like a mockery of their pain. Mary had loved bright, sunny days. Still, Sherlock felt too hot in his suit. He felt out of place at the funeral home, surrounded by all of Mary’s family and friends. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade stood by him, quietly supportive, while John dealt with the other guests.

The ceremony was quiet. Sherlock managed to avoid getting up to say anything because nobody expected him to be tactful (a deserved reputation, he had to admit, but he would have made an effort for John’s sake. And for Mary. He kept those ridiculously sentimental thoughts to himself.) and he remained quiet during a slide-show someone had put together of photos from Mary’s life. John sat stoically through the entire service, flanked by Sherlock and Lestrade. 

There was a gathering at the Watson’s house after the funeral. Sherlock kept out of the way, not wanting to deal with a group of people he didn’t know or care to know. They had been Mary’s friends, not his, and he didn’t feel like discussing her with them. After the last guests had left, John took one look around the house and then informed Sherlock that he was coming back to Baker Street.

“It doesn’t feel right to stay here without her. At least, not yet,” John said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Mrs Hudson answered for Sherlock. “You’re welcome any time, even if he doesn’t say so.”

John flashed a brief smile. “Alright then, let’s go.”

Mrs Hudson called for a taxi while John walked through the house one last time, clearing up any last bits of rubbish and wiping away imaginary specks of dust. The house had been given a thorough cleaning by Mrs Hudson the day before so that it would be ready. John had said once that he felt guilty about leaving her to do it but he had been busy with funeral arrangements and she had said she was happy enough to do it.

The taxi came and John locked up, turning the lights out and putting the alarm on. The ride back to Baker Street was in silence. Even the driver didn’t talk, sensing the sombre mood of his passengers. 

Back at the flat, neither Sherlock or John particularly felt like sleeping. Mrs Hudson bade them goodnight and left them to their own devices, which involved mostly sitting in silence. After several minutes had passed, Sherlock got up and made tea.

“…You’ve been doing that an awful lot,” John said as a cup appeared in front of him.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, well… I suppose it seems to be the thing to do.”

“You mean you’ve got into the habit of doing it yourself since I haven’t been here,” John replied, sipping the hot liquid.

“I have picked some things up, you know. Social graces. What to do when a friend is upset, that kind of thing,” Sherlock replied, not looking at John at all. 

“And your immediate thought is to make tea a lot?” John asked, sounding a ouch amused.

“Well, that’s what comes to mind when I-” Sherlock cut himself off, sipping his tea so he wouldn’t have to continue.

John frowned curiously. “When you what?”

Sherlock dropped his gaze to his tea cup. “When I think ‘what would John do?’” he replied. 

John laughed, just once and then set his cup down. “Well, at least you’re not drugging it this time.”

“As if I would dare do that again,” Sherlock replied, smirking. He and John shared brief smiles over their tea. 

“You know, she hated that story,” John said. “She couldn’t believe that someone I called my best friend would drug me and terrify me like that.” John sipped his tea. “And then she met you.”

Sherlock hid his smirk by sipping his tea.

John drew in a shaky breath and buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do without her, Sherlock?”

Sherlock set his cup down, smirk gone. He moved across the room to sit beside John on the sofa.

“Sherlock..?”

“Quiet. The tea is my answer to ‘what would John do?’ but this is my answer to ‘what would Mary do?’” Sherlock said. Tentatively, uncertain as to how his gesture would be received, the detective pulled John against his chest. “You’ll have to tell me if I get this wrong. I don’t do this often.”

John laughed, though it sounded more like a sob. “No, no… this is… it’s okay.”

“Just don’t get used to it,” Sherlock muttered, feeling embarrassed. 

John didn’t reply, choosing instead to bury his face in Sherlock’s chest and just accept the attempt at comfort for what it was. 

* * *

In the end, John didn’t return to the home he had shared with Mary. Her belongings were divided up between John and her family, with a few mementos going to her friends. John moved his own things back to Baker Street and sold the house. He no longer joined Sherlock on cases but he helped in his own limited way when Sherlock was at the flat. Sherlock didn’t stop inviting him though, every time he had a call from NSY or a client rang the doorbell. 

It was almost what Sherlock had wanted when he returned from his faked death. Almost, but not quite. Yet Sherlock couldn’t regret ever knowing Mary. Couldn’t regret faking his death and giving Jon the opportunity to meet her and fall in love with her. She was gone from their lives but Sherlock would never delete his memories of her. 

Then one blustery autumn day, Sherlock received a call from Lestrade, something about a fishy suicide that sounded right up Sherlock’s alley. 

“Are you coming, John?” asked Sherlock, not truly expecting a positive answer after so long. John had shown no signs of changing his mind about coming out on cases again. So he was pleasantly surprised when John stood up.

“Yeah, alright then.”

Sherlock grinned. “Excellent.” He threw John his coat. “Come on then, John! The game is on!”


End file.
